The problem with being ravished in a carriage was that carriages did not come equipped with bathwater.
Kaia stood in front of the vanity in her chambers, frantically scrubbing at her inner thigh with a damp cloth she had dipped in her washbasin. She smelled of musk, leather, and the expensive sandalwood cologne that seemed to cling to her skin like a second layer of guilt.
"Out, damned spot," she muttered, channeling Lady Macbeth, though she suspected Macbeth had fewer issues with sticky thighs.
She dropped the cloth and looked in the mirror. Her hair was a disaster—a silver bird's nest that defied gravity. Her lips were swollen. Her eyes had that glassy, drugged look of a woman who had just seen God.
But it was the mark on her neck that made her blood run cold.
Right there, on the sensitive cord of muscle just below her ear, was a bruise.
